


Feed You Grapes, Rub Your Shoulders

by cozywilde



Series: Nomikh Lavellan [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Homesickness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28908405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cozywilde/pseuds/cozywilde
Summary: A moment of reprieve helps take some of the weight from Nomikh's shoulders.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: Nomikh Lavellan [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120148
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Feed You Grapes, Rub Your Shoulders

**Author's Note:**

> See [Nomikh’s Toyhouse profile](https://toyhou.se/7959085.nomikh-lavellan) for his appearance and history.

Nomikh sighed and rubbed at his aching neck, staring into the flickering light of the campfire. Dusk had slipped over into night, but it was early yet to retire to a tent. The camp still bustled with scouts cleaning away the remains of dinner, The Iron Bull chatting with Sera across the fire as they both readied their weapons for the next day. The rhythms became more familiar with each passing day, but Nomikh still found himself caught off-guard every so often—ears twitching at curses in rough Trade where he expected a string of precise Elvish, jumping at the clang and scrape of steel instead of the whispery creak of finely wrought ironwood. 

It wouldn’t do to appear as unnerved as he felt, though. Too many people, too many _lives_ depending on his ability to broadcast the Inquisition’s strength and capability. He straightened, rolling the tight joint of his shoulder till it cracked. 

“Goodness me, that sounded painful.”

Nomikh glanced up and huffed a short laugh. He must have been lost in thought indeed to have missed the clink and jingle of Dorian’s many buckles as he approached. “Ah, well. More of a relief after the fact.” He rubbed at his shoulder, then gestured to the spot next to him. “Join me, if you’d like.”

Dorian sat. They both turned to watch the fire again—or, Nomikh did, until the weight of Dorian’s gaze drew his attention back again. He didn’t say anything at first, though Nomikh thought he recognized the expression. Calculating, considering variables as if picking apart the intricacies of a new spell—but rather than directing that focus at a book, he looked at Nomikh. 

Nomikh’s raised eyebrow finally seemed to prompt him. Dorian smiled, quick and coy. “I’m afraid I haven’t any grapes this far into the untamed wilderness, but I could still extend the offer of a shoulder rub.” 

Nomikh laughed, off-balance in a distinctly more enjoyable way. “I rather thought you were joking.” Quite the speech Dorian had given when last they were in Skyhold, while Nomikh stood mute, heat rising in his cheeks.  _ Here and there you run, checking in on your followers. Why don’t they come to you, feed you grapes, rub your shoulders? I suppose it’s more fun this way. For me, I mean. You’re rather strapping. _

He couldn’t say what he had replied—beyond returning the compliment, which Dorian had gracefully accepted in his usual fashion (that is, proclaiming his own good qualities to be so obvious as to be self-evident). Which they entirely were, to be fair. 

“Ah! Well, certainly I was a bit. That was before I realized the state of those Inquisitorial shoulders, however.” 

Nomikh laughed, ducking his head. “That bad?”

“Deplorable, really,” Dorian said, with a mournful shake of his head. 

Nomikh looked him over, considering, lips still curled in a smile that Dorian returned. “Alright then,” he decided. “Offer accepted.” 

“Delightful,” Dorian said, and his eyes flicked away—to the scouts busy around the camp, to their companions across the fire. “Shall we?” he nodded to one of the tents, as yet unclaimed for the night. 

At this, Nomikh’s heart stuttered in an altogether embarrassing fashion. It made sense—a massage would hardly work through the leather of his coat, and the Fereldan nights quickly grew chilled. But still, the thought of him and Dorian tucked away in close, relatively private surroundings, Dorian’s hands on him… 

“Yes, let’s,” Nomikh replied, a beat late, but managing an even tone at least. He nodded to Bull and Sera as he passed, and lifted the flap of the tent for Dorian to enter before him. He tied the flap closed after he ducked in, and turned to find Dorian already seated on one of the bedrolls. 

He smiled, and it was a different thing than the sort of smile he’d flashed around the campfire—a little more subdued, but warmer somehow. A private smile. Even the thin leather and cloth of the tent muted the sounds from outside considerably, cocooning them in a space much quieter and calmer. 

Nomikh swallowed. “How would you like me, then?”

Dorian’s eyes flashed with—something, the quick curl of his lip no doubt holding back some bit of innuendo. But his voice was soft when he answered, perhaps responding to the same sense of hushed sanctuary Nomikh felt in the small space. “Coat off, if you please. Shirt as well, if you’re comfortable.”

The leather shrugged smoothly from Nomikh’s shoulders, folded haphazardly to be laid in a corner of the tent. The fastenings of his shirt took a bit longer, still half-turned to the corner, eyes slipping to Dorian until their gazes met. Dorian huffed a noise and glanced away as if caught, busying himself with removing his gloves instead. 

“Shall I?” Nomikh asked, gesturing to the bedroll once his shirt had joined his coat. Oddly enough, the half-nudity brought a measure of comfort and familiarity—memories of sitting half-stripped to scrub at laundry or help mix messy dyes with his clan, closeness without expectations or awkwardness. 

“Please,” Dorian said, patting the spot just in front of him. Nomikh sat cross-legged as he would to meditate, breathing already steadying and slowing as it would then. 

He heard Dorian take a low breath behind him, and then warm palms settled on his shoulders. A shiver went down Nomikh’s spine, breath hissing out. 

“Cold? My apologies,” Dorian said, and muttered something about  _ the blasted freezing South _ before his hands lit with heat, just this side of too much. 

Nomikh swallowed back a groan, head swimming in the rush of feeling. How to explain it wasn’t cold that had him shivering, but the bone-deep ache of realizing he hadn’t been touched skin-to-skin in any but the most fleeting ways in months? Far simpler to sway into the press of Dorian’s fingers, sinking ready heat into tense muscle. 

“Better?” Dorian asked. 

Nomikh cleared his throat, grasped for words, and ended up just nodding. Dorian gave a low chuckle, a teasing note entering his voice. “Speechless already? I must be doing something right.” His fingers kneaded up Nomikh’s neck, familiar calluses from staffwork rubbing gentle lines of friction into his skin. 

“Mm,” Nomikh agreed, and let his head drop forward, eyes sliding closed. He lost time to the steady push and pull of Dorian’s hands, the sharp tension as he pushed at tight knots of muscle, the heady release as they finally relaxed into lassitude. 

“Well,” Dorian said at last, hands stilling over Nomikh’s shoulder blades. Low and soft, his voice did little to stir Nomikh from his sleepy daze. “I believe I’ve done what I can here.” 

Nomikh blinked, slowly surfacing. “Oh?” His voice came out husky, and he cleared his throat, glancing back at Dorian. “Yes, I feel—much better, thank you.” He smiled helplessly, the words so inadequate; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt quite so warm, so centered. 

Or, he could. Back with Clan Lavellan. Home. 

“You know, back with my clan, there was an elf who would do something similar with his hands,” Nomikh said, tongue loose, seized with the sudden urge to share. He stretched lazily, arms above his head; Dorian’s hands lingered for the barest moment on his shifting muscles before he withdrew. “The warmth, I mean.” 

“Oh?” Dorian asked. Nomikh half-turned to look at him, nodding. 

“Mmhm. Ayhan, the other apprentice under our Keeper.” Nomikh laughed fondly, shaking his head. “He acts as if it’s some great favor, but he’s such a mother hen—the moment he saw me rubbing my hands together to warm up he’d grab them and cast, grumbling all the while about lazy elves who didn’t bother to learn simple utility spells.” Nomikh sighed, half-smiling. The memory felt very close here, the tent walls as near to an aravel as he’d find away from the Dalish. 

“It sounds as if you miss him a great deal,” Dorian said. His voice carried the same softness as before, though with a note of melancholy laced beneath. 

“Yes, I suppose,” Nomikh said. Again, inadequate to the ache of his clan, his  _ family,  _ so far away as to be unreachable. “Though we all have people we miss.” 

“Indeed we do.” Dorian sighed, and then straightened, smiling again—the campfire smile this time, bright and quick. “I’ll leave you to your rest, then.” 

“Oh,” Nomikh said, off-balance again as Dorian stood. He’d expected… well. It didn’t matter what he expected, and if Dorian wished to leave, Nomikh wouldn't stop him. “Good night. And truly… thank you.” 

Dorian looked back as he reached the flap of the tent, face half-shadowed from the light of the fire. “It was my pleasure,” he said. “Good night.”


End file.
